


It's Her Party

by ColdColdHeart



Series: The Key to Oslov [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Class Differences, Dehumanization, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Dystopia, Femdom, Forced Orgasm, Heterosexual Sex, Light Bondage, M/F, Multi, Original Slash, Past Abuse, Pegging, Politics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Prostitution, Sex Toys, Sex for Favors, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart
Summary: Gersha, Besha, and Tilrey have a pretty nice alliance going, in the Council chamber and in the bedroom. There’s just one problem: Besha’s haughty wife, Davita. If they don’t get her on board, she could put an end to their productive activities à trois.Luckily for them, Davita’s bored with her privileged life. She finds Tilrey very “interesting,” and she likes to play games…This takes place a month after “The Trip to Thurskein” but also picks up plot threads from “The Slap” and “Tea and Other Stuff.” The Council has finally voted on the Notification bill.





	1. Besha Throws a Tantrum

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an odd one. Chapters 1, 3, and 4 are all plot and politics; Chapter 2 is pure smutty smut (please mind the tags!). I'm not planning to switch to full-time M/F or anything, but this idea got hold of me and wouldn't let go.
> 
> Thanks to Lurker for helping me think through the aftermath of "The Trip to Thurskein," and thanks to all for reading. My updates are also [on Tumblr](https://welcome-to-oslov.tumblr.com/).

“Darling,” said Davita Lindblom to her husband, setting the tea tray on the low table, “this seems an awful lot like two against one.”

Then she swooped across the room and clasped Gersha’s hand with a smile that was clearly meant to take the sting out of the preceding words. “Of course, I would never fault my husband for bringing his loveliest colleague to see me.”

“Lovely indeed,” Besha echoed sarcastically.

Ordinarily, Gersha would have blushed. But in the month that had passed since his oldest friend was exiled for Dissidence, he’d alternated between impotent rage and numb indifference. Tonight he was all about numbness, soured by a faint disgust with high Upstarts generally and with himself and their hostess in particular.

At least Tilrey was beside him—beautiful, understanding Tilrey. Of course, if Tilrey hadn’t been so obsessed with that dull but important Notification bill, and the bill hadn’t beaten the odds and passed, Gersha wouldn’t be here tonight at all. “Damage control,” Tilrey called this evening, but so far it felt more like torture.

Gersha put his hand on the small of Tilrey’s back and nudged him forward, prompting him to take charge. “We’re three against one, actually.”

Davita glanced at Tilrey as if for the first time, though his height and physique made him hard to miss. “Right, Verán’s little toy. Or wait, isn’t he your secretary now?”

Tilrey squeezed Gersha’s hand warningly _._

Gersha ignored it, because now he was angry again and it felt good. “Please don’t talk about him that way. I despise it.”

“Gersha’s totally gone on the boy,” said Besha. Since they’d entered Davita’s apartment, he’d been flitting about nervously, with none of his usual cocky posturing. “Don’t get him started. He’ll sound like a Dissenter.”

Gersha took them both in—the haughty, well-bred Councillor with her head held high, and her social-climber husband eager to placate her. Yesterday, Besha had voted against his wife and the other Islanders for the first time since his election to the Council. He’d voted with Gersha for the Notification bill, and they’d won.

Now Davita wanted an explanation of her husband’s disloyalty, and it had better be good.

“If treating people like ‘toys’ is the current interpretation of Whybergism, then I _am_ a Dissenter.” Gersha looked straight at her as he spoke, peer to peer. “There are worse things to be.”

His friend Ranek Egil used to point out that Dissent was written right into the Constitution. Whyberg believed it was a necessary ingredient of a functioning meritocracy, so why did everyone treat the word “Dissenter” like a dangerous explosive?

But now Ranek was dead, and the more Gersha learned about his friend’s precipitous arrest and exile to the Wastes, the more he worried he was the one really to blame. Ranek had done favors for Gersha, broken rules for his sake. What if those lapses had led to worse ones—or simply made enemies for Ranek? In his angry periods, Gersha had launched a little private investigation of Ranek’s Int/Sec colleagues, hoping to find evidence of a conspiracy.

Davita wasn’t fazed by his outburst. “That’s why I have such respect for you, Gersha,” she said. “You care about the spirit of Whybergism. And you’re quite right: if we don’t respect our inferiors, we’re no better than Feudals. Now, won’t you sit down so we can discuss what brings you here?”

Her voice was graceful, just like the drape of her skirt and the movements of her elegant hands. As he sank onto one of the right-angled sofas, gesturing for Tilrey to sit beside him, Gersha was all too aware that grace had an iron core.

_She’s spent her whole life disregarding people she considers beneath her,_ Tilrey had told Gersha when they discussed Davita earlier. _Don’t be intimidated. You’re her equal._

Tilrey had warned him that Davita combined all of Gersha’s own intellect, beauty, and consciousness of superiority (Tilrey’s words; Gersha had protested them) with Besha’s raw confidence and savvy. But it was one thing to know that, another to tangle with it.

Besha had voted for a bill that would reform the entire Notification system, dealing a blow to inherited privilege. Since he couldn’t tell his wife that he was in Gersha’s pocket because Gersha knew his darkest secret, he and Tilrey had schemed together to neutralize the threat.

All this scheming—where would it end? Gersha could hack an Int/Sec database, but he couldn’t bend human beings to his will—unless he was in Thurskein, where everyone rushed to do his bidding simply because of who he was.

“I’ll go fetch some salmon and rusks, shall I?” Besha said, escaping into the kitchen.

“Yes, love.” Davita turned to Gersha. “It’s such a pleasure to see you outside the Sector.”

Was her warmth genuine? Tilrey would know, but he was sitting there not helping. “Likewise,” Gersha said, struggling to come up with small talk. “One of these days I must meet the children. How many are there now?”

“Valgunde, Blas, and little Virs.” Davita passed him her handheld, a smile of maternal pride highlighting her cheekbones. “They’re absolute monsters of ego, which means they take after Besha, I suppose.”

“I heard that!” Besha called, while Gersha studied the image. The three children were posed stiffly with their parents, the whole family dressed in cleanest, purest white. Besha looked miserable, and the older boy’s scowl mirrored his. The toddler looked a hot second away from screaming his lungs raw.

So that was high-Upstart family life. Gersha returned the handheld. “Lovely. The eldest boy favors you.”

“Doesn’t he? But Gunde’s very like you, darling,” Davita said to Besha, who’d returned with a platter of cold smoked salmon, rusks, pickled radish, and real cheese spread. “She talks a blue streak and won’t listen to reason.”

As she spoke, she patted the couch beside her, and Besha slid into place. His hunched shoulders made it clear he hadn’t missed the subtext. Back in the days when Gersha considered Besha his rival, he might have enjoyed the man’s discomfiture; now he felt a little sick.

So much ego. So much rank pulling. Was that what had brought Ranek down?

“Blas just took his A3s at school,” Davita went on. “He didn’t do as well as we hoped, did he, Besha?”

Besha stared into space. “He’s not even six. He’s got time.”

“He needs work on numerical retention and abstract reasoning.” Davita swiveled to address Gersha. “Of course, not all of us can excel at such things.” Her gaze moved to her husband, who narrowed his eyes. “And not all of us have to. But after the vote yesterday, one can’t help but be concerned, as a parent. One can’t help but wonder if a misguided attempt at fairness will increase the pressure on our children to excel early and at every turn. After all, one can’t risk the possibility that—”

Besha interrupted her with a loud groan. “Don’t be melodramatic, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to Lower your precious son and put a Drudge kid in his place.”

Davita’s brows shot up. “What a suggestion! _My_ son would never be in danger.”

“Then why can’t you let this go? Yes, I voted for it. It’s a nothing bill.”

“Analyzing legislation isn’t your forte, Besha. This ‘nothing bill’ _will_ increase the rate of children who end up separated from their parents by rank.” Davita turned to Gersha, her face as grave as if they were back in the Council chamber. “You don’t deny that?”

Tilrey knew the text of the Notification bill far better than Gersha did, but Gersha could always dredge up a few Whyberg quotes. “Actually, I think the bill simply encourages the system to work the way the Founder wanted. _Rule by the fittest with rotation at the top_. _Inherited power is the sworn enemy of meritocracy and the bosom friend of mediocrity_.”

Two ruddy spots appeared on Davita’s cheeks. She was a fierce debater on the Council floor.

“Indeed,” she said, her dark eyes taking on a predatory intensity. “Well said. But what about _Rule by the masses was the fatal mistake of the Tangle, because the masses lacked foresight_? Or _Power should belong only to those who have the intellect to use it_?”

“No one’s suggesting dismantling the Levels!” Gersha reached into his memory again, grateful that his uncle used to grill him on the founding texts. “ _Success should never be based on whom one knows. A family line is only as strong as its weakest member._ Wouldn’t you prefer that your son succeed on his own merits, with no help from his family name?” He gestured at Besha. “The way his father did?”

This was a mistake. Besha’s glower deepened by several degrees as his wife turned her full attention on him. “My love,” she said, “why don’t you tell your high-minded friend what your success is actually based on?”

Besha muttered, “Leave me out of this.”

“He brought you into it.” Her gaze returned to Gersha, coldly triumphant. “You were at school with Besha, so you know he was always ranked near the bottom of his class. Why do you think he’s risen so far?”

She might as well have said, _I made him, and I can unmake him._ Besha’s fists were clenched, his cheeks bright with humiliation. Gersha shot a glance at Tilrey, seeking guidance, but Tilrey stared into space.

Words rose to Gersha’s lips before he could think them through. “Besha has a genius for politics. That’s something our tests don’t measure.”

Was he really praising Besha, of all people? Apparently so, and now he had to explain: “Besha has what Whyberg called ‘social intelligence.’ He observes people, figures out what makes them tick, and gets them on his side. Or drives them crazy,” he added, with a sharp glance at Besha. “I hated him for a while.”

Besha bobbed his head, starting to regain his equilibrium. “I wanted you to hate me, I guess. Or something. I was an absolute prick to you.”

“And now what?” Davita glanced from one of them to the other, eyes narrowing. “Apparently your feelings toward each other have changed.”

Besha coughed. Gersha felt his face heat up.

“Besha seems quite taken with you, Gersha—with _both_ of you.” Her gaze alighted briefly on Tilrey. “I don’t mind—it’s sweet, really. I’ve never seen him quite so enthusiastic about anything before.” She patted her husband’s knee. “And you’re quite right about his brilliant political instincts. I think he could be General Magistrate one day. But suddenly he’s voting against his own convictions, and you appear to be responsible.”

Besha twitched, but didn’t push her away. “ _Your_ convictions, Davita.”

“I thought we agreed that I steer the ship of state, and you crew it.”

“Would you stop fucking patronizing me?” Besha detached her hand and rose, practically vibrating. “Both of you! I know I’m not any kind of genius. I know people, that’s all. But I have a brain of my own, and Gersha didn’t make me do anything.”

“Oh? And how does this bill serve _your_ interests, then, love?”

Besha crossed his arms. “I think it’s only fair to bring a little more neutrality into the Notification process.”

His wife sighed as if at a misbehaving child. “Tell me, Besha, how did you get the Diplomat Notification that enabled you to stand for Council election? Wouldn’t your test scores normally have consigned you to one of those low-admin Discourse positions?”

Besha paced to the window and back, each step tight with rage. “Okay, so I needed patronage. Maybe you did, too, in ways that weren’t so obvious. Maybe I wouldn’t have _had_ to suck people off to succeed if the system wasn’t skewed to favor people like you in the first place.”

Davita shot Gersha a glance. “He gets like this sometimes. It’ll pass.”

“Oh, fucking _please_.” Besha actually stamped his foot. “Look, for the past twelve years I’ve been following your orders and Verán’s orders like a good little political wind-up monkey, and I have limits, okay? You’re so pig-headed and ignorant sometimes with your high-Upstart bullshit. I _do_ have a mind of my own.”

Was this temper tantrum part of the plan, or an improvisation? Gersha glanced at Tilrey again, hoping for a clue, and saw only the horrible blankness he remembered from his lover’s days as a kettle boy.

“My love,” Davita said with an eye-roll, “you do indeed. You’ve expressed your feelings and made sure we all heard you. But I fear your temper’s generating more heat than light. Now, would you mind clearing up?”

Besha stood stock-still. Gersha tensed for an explosion.

But Besha’s shoulders went slack. “Fine,” he said, and grabbed the platter. “I suppose you’ll want fresh tea as well?”

“That would be lovely,” said Davita, in a tone so sweet it sent shivers down Gersha’s spine. He longed to ask Tilrey what now, but Tilrey was still impersonating a couch cushion.

With Besha back in the kitchen, Gersha braced himself for Davita’s wrath. But she only smiled and said, “I’m wondering if Besha’s told you how we met.”

Gersha shook his head, feeling a little dazzled by the pleasant glint of her dark eyes, the complicit arch of her brows. Tilrey was right—she was formidable.

“Besha was managing an ordnance depot out in a dreadful corner of the Wastes, and I was inspecting it for the Defense Committee. At first glance, everything seemed in order, but something about his glib manner made me dig deeper.” She glanced toward the kitchen, but didn’t modulate her voice. “It turned out Besha was running quite the little trading post. He’d send stun guns and body armor to the foreperson of the sap shop in Karkei in exchange for sap vials, which he then peddled to a cargo crew in exchange for fresh fruit from Harbour, and gifted to an Admin he was trying to butter up in hopes of getting a posting in the Sector.”

Gersha was shocked despite himself: bartering weapons to Laborers—even stun guns—was basically the same as arming bullies or Dissidents. He already knew that Besha had committed treason for Councillor Linnett, but he'd imagined that as an isolated offense, not part of a pattern. He opened his mouth, then closed it as Tilrey’s fingers grazed the back of his hand. _Stay focused._

“I see. And why are you telling me this now?”

A tiny raise of those terrifying brows. “I’ve always been impressed by your moral integrity, Gersha, even when we disagree. I just want to make sure you know whom you’re in bed with. That is the right phrase?”

Gersha’s face flamed as the things he and Besha had done in bed flashed before his eyes, colored by this new knowledge— _weapons dealer, sap smuggler_. He wanted to slap himself for finding the man’s squirming and moaning and shameless eagerness even momentarily attractive.

Then again, if his oldest friend really was a Dissident, his taste in people wasn’t his strong suit. Everything he’d been raised to believe was coming apart, leaving him adrift in the wreckage.

As he sank under the weight of that realization, a large, familiar hand gripped his and held tight.

Tilrey had come to life. He said, “You don’t seem to mind having Fir Linbeck in _your_ bed, Fir’n.”

Gersha drew in his breath. Davita looked as surprised as if the end-table had spoken to her. Besha, returning with the tea, took in the situation and smirked in a way that, for once, Gersha didn’t find insufferable. “The boy has a point, love.”

Davita was examining Tilrey with new interest. “Gersha, did you tell him to say that?”

Besha sat down beside Tilrey, loose-limbed as a petulant teenager. “You can’t believe he thought of it himself? It was _right there._ ”

Davita ignored her husband. “You’re not going to reprove him?”

“I—” Gersha was still clinging to Tilrey’s hand like a drowning man. “Perhaps he spoke a bit out of turn, but I don’t insist on as much formality as you—”

“Such fucking bullshit,” Besha said. “I’m so fucking over it.”

He snaked an arm around Tilrey’s waist, pulled him in—Tilrey kept hold of Gersha’s hand—and attacked Tilrey’s mouth voraciously with his own.

At first, Tilrey just yielded. Then he moved hungrily into the kiss, his thumb and forefinger stroking Besha’s jawline. Besha’s fingers tangled in the dark-blond hair, his other hand on Tilrey’s thigh. Gersha heard Davita draw in her breath—with disgust or something else, he wasn’t sure.

Besha disengaged himself and addressed his wife a little breathlessly: “Do you know what I did just before coming here? I sucked his cock. Yes.” He patted Tilrey’s knee. “ _His_. In Gersha’s office, with Gersha sitting right there. And I did a fucking great job of it, just like I learned to do from the high Upstarts I had to oblige to get where I am.”

Gersha’s face burned; he couldn’t look at Davita, because the part about his office was true. “I’m so sorry this has . . . perhaps we should—”

She interrupted him, her tone surprisingly mild: “And that’s high on the list of things I never needed to hear, Besha. What on earth’s gotten into you today? You can fuck whomever you like, any way you like. I don’t own you. All I ask is that you don’t actively make my life difficult.”

“And all _I_ ask is that you treat me like the father of your children and not your lackey.”

“I would, if you acted like it.”

Besha pressed against Tilrey’s side as if he needed to be propped up. “I’ve played the part, okay? I’ve acted like a high-named asshole, but at the end of the day, if I can’t do anything you and Verán don’t tell me to do, I’m basically just your fuck-piece.”

“Now you’re the one who’s being melodramatic, love,” said Davita with brutal dryness. Gersha cleared his throat, hoping again to beg out of witnessing the marital spat, but no one noticed him.

“And you don’t _see_ things,” Besha complained, nuzzling Tilrey’s shoulder. “Rishka’s probably as clever as I am. He’s got that social intelligence thing. I didn’t see it for a while, either. People like you and Verán make him bow and scrape and play-act, the same way you make me, and it’s bullshit, and I’ve had fucking enough of it, okay?” He buried his face against Tilrey’s sleeve. “Enough.”

“Besha, did you fall into a vial of sap?” Davita asked. “Or is this what an early midlife crisis looks like?”

Her husband didn’t answer, only clung tighter to Tilrey, who wound an arm around the Councillor’s shoulder and rested his chin on his head. Gersha opened his mouth and closed it.

If whatever those two were doing was part of their plan, they hadn’t let him in on it, and it seemed more likely to amuse or disgust Davita than to reconcile her. Could he salvage anything from this mess?

He rose, really determined this time. “I’m sorry this discussion became so . . . acrimonious, Davita. When I asked for Besha’s vote, it wasn’t my intention to come between you.”

She waved a hand—every movement still graceful, despite the coldness of her eyes. “I see that now. Besha seems to fancy himself a Dissenter this month. Clearly he and I have matters to discuss in private.”

“Not a Dissenter,” Besha mumbled into Tilrey’s shoulder. “Just sick of bowing and scraping for permission to exist.”

“You sound like a teenager, love, raging against the system. It’s embarrassing.”

“We should be going, then.” Gersha looked meaningfully at Tilrey, who straightened and tugged himself out of Besha’s clutches.

Besha grunted in protest, but didn’t try to hold him. It was Davita who said, as Tilrey stood up, “No. _He_ stays.”

Gersha thought he’d misheard, but a glance at her told him otherwise.

“Besha—” She gestured to her husband to rise, and he obeyed as if his limbs were on strings. “Now,” she went on, shooing Gersha toward his colleague, “the two of you leave. The boy stays with me.”

“But . . . why?” This wasn’t what they’d planned, surely?

But Tilrey sat back down, too quickly, and maybe this was exactly what they’d planned. “Why?” Gersha asked again, not sure whom he was addressing.

Davita’s social smile had an edge that made his stomach flip. “I do know what you’re doing, Gersha,” she said. “You gave the boy to Piter Ekorin in exchange for his vote—oh yes, I got Ekorin to come clean. And now you’re pulling the same maneuver on my Besha, who appears to have formed an emotional as well as physical attachment to you both. You’re exploiting his insecurities.”

With a glare at her husband—returned in kind—she went on: “You’re trying to splinter the Party for your own ideological reasons, and you want my support, my _complicity._ ”

Gersha couldn’t breathe, nerves balling themselves in his chest. “I know you would never support—”

Davita cut through the faltering words. “You may not know me as well as you think. But if I’m going to play along, or perhaps even help you, shouldn’t I be paid off, too?”

As Gersha searched for a response, confused by her rapid changes of direction, Davita turned to Tilrey and just looked. He looked straight back for a few seconds before lowering his eyes.

“I gather there’s something special about this one,” Davita said, still staring at him. “He seems to have a knack for making normally sensible Councillors act stupid. Because Verán harbors old-fashioned notions about gender, I never had a chance to experience him. May I now?” She cocked her head. “Or is he only equipped to service men?”

Gersha tasted bitterness. Part of him wanted to snap back, “He’s only equipped to service _me_ ,” but one glance at Tilrey’s carefully submissive demeanor told him this wasn’t the time to be possessive.

“He’s free to sleep with anyone he likes.” He tried not to let the bitterness infect his tone, because clearly this was what Tilrey wanted, what Tilrey had planned. Yet the absolute last thing _he_ wanted was to leave Tilrey alone with this raptor who was sizing him up like a small creature she was eager to reduce to a heap of bones.

Tilrey would probably say, _I’ve handled far worse._ That didn’t soothe the unease in Gersha’s stomach.

He needed Tilrey to pull him from the wreckage again, to hold his hand and swear to him that what had happened to Ranek Egil wasn’t his fault. He needed Tilrey to explain why allying themselves with someone like Besha didn’t make the two of them every bit as mercenary as he was.

Besha, Davita—he didn’t trust either of them, or himself. He only trusted Tilrey, who wasn’t even looking at him.

Davita smiled—a beautiful, frank smile. “How lovely and liberal of you to put it that way, Gersha. Quite consistent with your efforts to eradicate the scourge of inherited privilege. I always did think Verán was a little ridiculous with his high-handedness. Well then,” she asked Tilrey, “would you _like_ to oblige me tonight?”

Tilrey bowed his head. “It would be an honor, Fir’n.”

“Till morning, then.” She waved. “I promise to send him back without a scratch.”

Besha made a disgusted sound. “And that’s high on the list of things _I_ never needed to hear.”


	2. Davita Plays a Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yes. This is the smutty chapter. I have no excuses. ;) The plot continues in Chapter 3.

When the door of the coldroom sealed behind the other two, Tilrey and Fir’n Lindblom sat in silence. He waited for Davita to break it. She poured herself some tea and sipped, staring into space.

Should he call her Davita? No, that was probably a bad idea.

Besha had given him tips beforehand, out of Gersha’s earshot: _Davita likes to be in charge, so just let her. You’re good at that. And she’ll probably ask you about me, how I am in bed with you, but that’s none of her business, right?_

Tilrey knew how to keep things quiet. He waited.

He heard the rumble of a car jetting itself free of the garage, and then a second. Headlights glared around the edges of the shutters as the vehicles rose into the mag-grid, bearing Gersha and Besha away. After what he’d just witnessed, Tilrey wasn’t surprised that Besha and Davita kept separate quarters.

When the roar of jets and engines had faded, Davita rose and leaned against the kitchen archway, cup in hand. Her gaze drifted down and frankly scrutinized Tilrey in a way he was used to. He lowered his eyes, not out of modesty but out of habit.

_I think you’re our best bet,_ Besha had said. _She wants to fuck Gersha, too, but he wouldn’t last five minutes in her bedroom even if he liked women that way. You’ll be fine. And she might think you’re—_

“You’re interesting.” Davita pushed off the wall, crossed the room, and perched on the windowsill. “What have you done to my husband?”

Should he play the meek little kettle boy? No, too late for that. “Do you want a list, Fir’n?”

Davita laughed—a pleasant, full-throated sound. Restless as a caged animal, she wandered back to her original seat and settled there. Then her eyes locked on his, with no trace of mirth in them. “Get up.”

Tilrey knew that tone, too, intimately. It was a tone that sent the world away and locked them in a hermetic bubble together. Nothing that happened in that bubble would quite be real, and everything would matter.

He got up.

“Get undressed.”

Obeying was so easy. He removed everything in the order he’d been taught long ago, folding as he went: indoor boots and socks, belted jerkin, clinging shirt, trousers, briefs. The air was dry and warm on his bare skin. He made a pile of the garments on the couch. Then he turned to the Fir’n, clasped his hands behind him, and lowered his eyes again.

“Look at me.”

That was a little harder, but he held her gaze. Her face was impassive, her dark eyes curious. A clock ticked somewhere behind her.

“You do a very good impersonation of an idiot,” Davita said after a moment. “When I saw you with Verán, you always looked blank, as if you’d been brain-wiped. I could never understand what Besha and the others saw in you; I find empty-headed men very boring.”

Tilrey swallowed, knowing she could see his slightest twitch now. “Verán liked me that way, Fir’n. I can be what you like, too.”

Davita crossed and recrossed her legs, drew her skirt over them. “I’m sure you can. Now, why don’t you make the case for that silly bill you seduced my husband into voting for. Convince me I should have voted for it, too.”

Although she was showing almost no skin, her little adjustment had sent blood straight to Tilrey’s cock. Knowing she could see his arousal didn’t help. “That isn’t my place, Fir’n. Fir Gádden could make a better—”

A slice of her hand cut him short. “Don’t play dumb. Fir Ekorin said you gave him a regular lecture in bed.”

“He did?” He couldn’t control his surprise.

A dry chuckle. “I’m not sure I believe it, either. That’s why you’re going to give me a repeat performance.”

“I don’t know what he. . . I mean, how do you want me to . . .”

“What did I say about playing dumb? If you can quote the bill verbatim, all the better.”

Tilrey shifted from foot to foot, summoning the earnest persona he wore in the Council chamber, when he _wasn’t_ naked and half-hard. It took a moment, but then words came: “Councillor Lunkoldd’s bill, 110.36.02, ‘Amendment to the Formation of Notification Boards,’ is a simple way to expand and randomize the committees that determine the Levels of our youth as they come of age, thereby ensuring the fairness and neutrality of this crucial process . . .”

He went on, his voice gaining strength as he explored familiar arguments and quoted convoluted text by heart. At times the Councillor looked bored, and at times she seemed to suppress a naughty grin, but she didn’t interrupt.

When he fell silent, she asked in her own Council chamber voice, resonant and formal, “How do you respond to the objection that the measure puts an undue burden on citizens chosen for the committee?”

He had an answer to that, and they went back and forth through a few other points that had been debated on the floor. Tilrey’s hands grew slippery behind his back; he clasped them tighter. It was hard enough disagreeing openly with a Councillor without knowing she could see the sweat glistening in every crease of his body.

“I’m bored,” Davita said abruptly. “You’re not as pretty now. A Drudge getting serious about politics is rather an ugly sight.”

Feeling like he’d been slapped, but not showing it, he dropped his eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Nor should you be; you were following instructions. I can tell now you didn’t learn all that by rote, so you’re a clever boy. Say something insolent. That was more interesting.”

Tilrey took a risk. “Do you really believe you’re naturally superior, Fir’n? Not just because of your test scores, but by blood?”

“Of course not.” She avoided the trap breezily. “Blood is only blood. I’m superior because of my achievements, and because of the burdens I choose to take on. Superiority itself is a burden.” A sigh, as if the burden were becoming heavy. “Go in the bedroom. Sit on the bed and wait.”

It was a relief to break the pose, and an even greater relief to go where she couldn’t see him. The carpet was soft under his bare feet, the apartment a blur. Not until he’d navigated the darkness and was sitting on her bed—soft, anonymous—did he realize he hadn’t thought twice before obeying. Just like old times.

Waiting, Tilrey closed his eyes and breathed in a faint, pervasive scent he had no name for, spicy and floral at once. Something from Harbour, a soap or cream, that reminded him of Magistrate Linnett’s bedroom.

The Councillor appeared in the doorway, her form obscured by a flowing robe. She reached down, and the room filled with soft light from a lamp with a salmon-pink shade. It spilled across the carpet, revealing the unusual colors of her robe—magenta, black, flame, and bone-white, all swirled together in a design that made Tilrey a little dizzy.

His half of the room remained in dusk, and that soothed his nerves like a dose of sap, evening out his breathing. Not that he was really nervous—what about this couldn’t he handle? “Is the robe from Harbour, Fir’n?”

“Of course.” Davita opened a dresser drawer and came to him carrying a box made of dark, varnished wood, just large enough to carry in both hands.

“This is Harbourer, too.” She set the box on the edge of the bed and lifted the lid, tipping the contents toward him. “These, however, are of Oslov make.”

Tilrey wasn’t particularly surprised to see an assortment of dildos, wood and plastic and steel and leather, ranging in size from modest to larger than his own cock. Though he kept his face blank, he felt his mouth go dry, remembering how it felt to be opened by something inanimate, the obdurate surface sliding against his sensitive flesh.

“Nothing new to you, are they?” She reached into the blue-velvet-lined interior and drew out a slim steel dildo about the length of his hand. With her other hand, she reached over and, for the first time today, touched him, her fingers wrapping around his cock. “You’re getting hard.”

The sudden touch worked on him like flipping a switch; while he’d been half-aroused before, now he was achingly erect, squeezing his eyes shut and using all his self-control to avoid thrusting his hips toward her. It was the careless way she’d done it, the matter-of-factness with which she’d finally deigned to notice his body. Gersha treated him like something precious, but this was . . . different. That careless touch made him hot and tight, made the room spin.

She withdrew her hand. Tilrey felt a gasp rise in his throat but stayed still. He said, “Besha likes to play games, too. Did you teach him?”

“You won’t mention Besha here.” Her voice was warm, friendly, with an iron command in the center. “Turn over.”

Tilrey did. It took all his concentration not to rut against the duvet as she positioned him on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging over. “Spread them.”

Again that carelessness, almost callousness. She knew he’d do it, and that was part of the reason he did.

He parted his thighs, fists clenched in the bedding, knowing exactly what was coming and how it would feel. When Magistrate Linden had used dildos on him, he’d felt mainly discomfort and shame, emotions that allowed him to dissociate from his body. Being aroused made things trickier, and he wondered if he’d stay that way or if discomfort would win out.

She moved behind him, and a slick finger teased around his opening and slid inside. He gasped again, lifting a hand to his mouth so he could bite a knuckle, diffusing the sensation.

“Hands behind your back,” Davita said. “Like before.”

She was too observant. He obeyed, clasping his hands tight at the small of his back and using the nails to brace himself. He’d learned these techniques to weather pain, but they worked just as well for pleasure, if things kept going that way.

She wanted him to feel pleasure; that was clear from her artful motions. And she’d probably be able to tell if he faked it.

While the index finger of one hand stroked deep inside him, making his whole lower body a thrumming nexus of excitement, her other hand caught up the pendant around his neck. “What’s this? An artifact?”

“A Tangle penny, Fir’n.” His breath caught, but he managed to add, “Gersha found it and gave it to me,” knowing she wouldn’t question his possession of the Tangle artifact if Gersha was responsible.

“How charming. He adores you, doesn’t he? No, no need to answer. I have eyes.”

The dusk seemed to thicken around them as she penetrated him with a second finger, then a third, slipping it in all the way to the knuckle. “I like you much better like this,” she said conversationally. “Would you like to tell me more about the bill now?”

“Please.” It was a grunt deep in his throat. “Can’t.”

“No, you can’t, can you? You like being opened.” She yanked all three fingers out of him with an obscene sucking pop, and he groaned.

“You know, from everything I’ve seen so far, you love being dominated. So does Besha—no, you still may not say his name—which makes this all the more intriguing. How do the two of you match up, I wonder?”

“I’m flexible.” Tilrey grunted again as she tugged his thighs farther apart. “Top or bottom, whatever you want, Fir’n.” Besha could certainly attest to that.

“What you mean to say is you’re a whore, so you can play any role.” Davita sounded oddly like Gersha when he was trying to solve a programming problem. “But I’m not interested in a performance. I’m interested in you.”

“Fir Linnett used to say that. That he wanted to know me.” The words slipped out of him; Malsha Linnett was the last person he wanted to mention here. Malsha hadn’t used dildos on him. But the smell of the room was so similar . . .

The comparison to the traitor didn’t appear to faze Davita. “And?”

“And . . . he never did. Know me.” Tilrey swallowed hard, not sure whether that was true or he just wanted it to be. “Go on,” he whispered. “I’m ready.”

The first prod of cold steel made him freeze, his breath catching. Then, as she forced the dildo past the outer ring of muscle, his heart beat frantically, and blood rushed to his cock again. The object was barely thicker than two fingers, but its alien coldness sent alarmed, eager shivers up his spine.

He raised his hips to take more of it, and Davita uttered a pleased little murmur. “What did I tell you? Ask for more.”

“More. Please, Fir’n.”

He reminded himself he was doing this for Gersha, for Besha, for their alliance, for reform, for his fellow Laborers, for everyone in Thurskein. She didn’t know him. She never would.

But she certainly did know how to work the steel in and out of him, fucking him deeper, angling the coldness against his prostate so he moaned aloud. Keeping his hands clasped was getting harder and harder; he seemed to be balanced on a knife-edge, each pump of his hips making his cock harder against the maddeningly soft bedding.

The bedsprings creaked as she came up beside him and patted his ass. “As you are, but over my lap.”

The promise of greater friction made him obey quickly, crawling up to stretch himself over her. Her thighs were full and firm at once through the silky fabric of the robe, and he rutted involuntarily, then yelped when she administered a sharp smack to his rump.

“Not yet, my love.”

He made faint protesting noises as she dragged him into position, adjusting the dildo inside him. He unclasped his hands and clawed at the duvet. But when she began spanking him, he relaxed and let go.

Her arm was strong, and each blow was hard and purposeful, bringing heat and stinging, tingling blood to his sensitive skin. Each felt like a reproof and an appreciation at once.

“You seem to like that.” A wallop, and he felt every centimeter of his right buttock acutely. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“Maybe you’ve done some things that need punishment?” A smart smack, catching both buttocks this time. “Or maybe you just like being reminded of what you really are?”

He felt a whimper rise in his throat as he was torn apart by a chaos of sensations: penetration, fullness, impact, pain, shame, pleasure. “ _Please_.” He needed to come, needed it soon, even if it meant telling her one of his secrets. “I need a verbal order, but—”

Instead of spanking him again, she reached down and yanked the dildo out of him. Again he whimpered, shocked by the sudden emptiness.

It was all he could do to stay still as her fingertips skimmed gently over his skin, tracing the hot welts she’d already raised and redoubling the sensation. “Now that,” she said, “is especially interesting. Get up.”

She shoved him off her lap, sending his legs tumbling over the edge of the bed. He managed to find his footing and stand, though his ass throbbed and his head was swimming as if he’d drunk undiluted rotgut.

When her small, strong fingers closed on his biceps and guided him toward the dresser where the lamp stood, he didn’t resist. Better for her to take over; he’d already mentioned Linnett and told her about his orgasm problem, and what the fuck was wrong with him?

“Bend over. Grip the edge.” She pressed his back to double him over the low wooden console. Then she patted his ass and spread his thighs again, handling him in an easy, proprietary way. “Who taught you to come on command? Was it Linnett again?”

“Yeah.” His voice was choked. “I mean, yes, Fir’n.”

“Is he the one who used objects on you?” A hand traced his jawline and stroked his hair, then yanked his head up so he could see what she had in her hand. “Did you ever take one this big?”

He drew in his breath sharply. She was holding a dildo modeled like a phallus, balls and all, made of reddish wood with intricate inlaid metal bands, and it was fucking huge. “No.” Just looking at it made his sphincter tighten. “Where did you even get that?”

“I had it made for me, at a workshop in Karkei that manufactures supplies for the porn streams.” She raised the monstrosity and rubbed it gently against his cheek so he could feel the softness of the sanded wood, almost like skin. “You’re going to like it.”

_No. I can’t._ But when she stroked his raw buttocks again, he only moaned.

“You can take it. It’s not like you’re a virgin. Ask for it. What’s your name again, sweetness?”

A laugh rose in his throat and stuck there. _She doesn’t even know my name._ “Rishka, Fir’n.”

“Ask for it, Rishka.”

She reached back. He felt the blind, blunt end of the object nudge his opening, bigger than any cock he’d ever taken, and he wanted to say no, but his body was answering for him—reaching for it, needing to enfold it. His hips moved of their own accord, and Davita crooned in approval as the head of the wooden cock breached him.

It was big. It was fucking _big._ He froze up, everything down there suddenly urgently throbbing, his vision blurred with tears.

“It’s all right, love. Don’t be afraid.” The phallus withdrew, but only to return and penetrate him a little deeper, making him feel like meat on a spit. He tightened his grip on the edge of the dresser.

“Do you want to say no? You can say no to me, you know. Gersha made that clear.”

_No. Yes._ He didn’t know anymore, and meanwhile she was working the thing back and forth, impaling him by millimeters. She was being careful now, heeding his body’s signals, and the inlaid metal bands didn’t hurt him, but they felt cold and impersonal the way the steel dildo had.

_Careful. She’s taking care of me._ Why did that just make his cock harder?

“You can’t hurt me,” he murmured—the words he used to say to Gersha ( _I’m not breakable_ ), and to other men in his head. “There’s no way you can hurt me.”

“Actually, I could if I wanted to.” She adjusted the angle slightly. “But I don’t.”

His flesh still pulsed feverishly, but the pain had yielded to an intense sense of fullness. His hips rose again, taking more of the thing in, and he felt a moan rip itself from his throat.

It was a stop-and-start process; each time he tensed up, she drew the phallus out a little and back in, whispering encouragingly: “I know you’re ready for this, sweetheart. It’s a perfect fit; you were made for it. What a beautiful tight warm sheath you are.”

The words made something twist in his stomach, mortification rolling over into desperate need. When her free hand reached under his belly to stroke his cock, he felt his last resistance give way. A few more strokes, and the shaft slid home in him, the wooden testicles coming up snug against his opening.

“Now,” she said, “stand up. We’re going back to bed.”

His heart drummed against his ribs. Tears streaked down his face. “I can’t.”

“Wrong.”

Her fingers were in his hair again, pulling him upright, while her other hand held the phallus firmly sheathed in him. His joints were cramped from bending over for so long, and as he straightened, the thing inside him became the center of his body—enormous, stretching him impossibly wide. Her firm hand on his elbow turned him around, and then he was walking as if the dildo were pushing him forward.

“Look at you. You’re taking it beautifully. Three more steps, sweetheart.”

She pushed, using the phallus to drive him, and he moved as if he were a machine and it were the lever. Tears continued to course down his cheeks, though the fullness inside him stopped short of pain.

When they reached the bed, he sank gladly onto his stomach. She rolled him onto his back so the soft pressure of the mattress kept the thing inside him. “You’re doing unbelievably well. Such a good boy. Now, just slide up a bit for me, put your head on the pillow . . .”

He writhed on the invading hardness inside him, so fucking _big_ , only to gasp at a new rush of sensation. Her fingers closed on his cock, hot and eager, and he arched his back and bared his throat, eyes rolling with pleasure. In a dim, distant way, he saw her part the bottom of her robe, but not until she straddled him did he understand where this was going.

_Yes._ He wanted to touch her, wanted desperately to draw apart the robe above her waist and stroke and squeeze her breasts, but she batted his hand away. “Here’s the question: do I need to tie your hands to keep you from using them?”

He shook his head like a reproved child, panting. Apparently unconvinced, she slid off the bed and returned with a filmy scarf, which she wound loosely around his wrists and knotted to the bed-frame. “How’s that? If I drop dead of a stroke, you can easily free yourself, a big strong man like you.”

How was she so rational? He tugged at the bonds and immediately remembered he was impaled, gasping as the plump wooden testicles teased at his cleft. “Would you please just— _please._ Fuck me. Now.”

“Hold on tight, love.” She grasped his cock at the base and lowered herself onto it, tight and hot and so wet that he began moving wildly, hips straining up into her, with no rhythm to his eager thrusts.

“Not so fast.” She detached herself, rested on her knees, and cinched his cock with her fingers again, making him squirm and moan with frustration. “You’re not going to set the pace here. Do you want more?”

“Please give me more, Fir’n.” It came out in one breath.

“And you won’t try to take control?” But she was already mounting him again and sliding him inside her, flexing her muscles to hold him tight.

Then she was moving—oh, verdant hells, she was moving. With every thrust of her hips that sheathed him in her, he felt the wooden shaft invading him and the wooden balls clamped against his ass. A keening sound grew at the back of his throat as the hot, sweet pressure in his own balls intensified. Every inch of him was on fire, and he needed—he needed—

“Please,” he gasped again. “You know I can’t—”

She grabbed him at the base again and took him in till his balls rested tight against her. There she paused, pinning him with her weight while she stimulated herself. He vibrated with frustration, wanting to pump his hips but fearful of toppling her off him.

“You’re not the only one with—” her breath caught— “needs, you know. Oh, that’s nice.” He was moving despite himself, and she rode the motion of his hips like an ocean wave. “You’re so big, I feel like you could split me in two. You great sweet brute.”

She braced herself on his shoulders and moved again, faster and faster, clenching him tight, her hectic breaths riffling his hair. “You’re mine now, every inch of you, mine.”

The scarf tightened around his wrists as she rode him, each frantic snap of her hips dragging him over the bedclothes, but he barely felt the pain, only the need that was straining him to the bursting point. “ _Please_.”

“Come for me, love.”

Coming was an extended moment of pure weightlessness that left him with no body, only a white-hot core that burned on and on and on. Dimly he felt the strain on his hips as he lifted them from the bed to bury himself in her warm wetness.

He saw a flash of her face, contorted with her own ecstasy, before his eyes rolled up and closed. And then he sank at last, unable to sustain the intensity, back into his shell of flesh and muscle and bone.

“Roll over, sweetheart.” Her voice sounded miles away. He was floating in soft gray, his synapses still throbbing with the echoes of explosion.

After a moment, he registered the command and rolled on his side. The friction as she pulled out the dildo made him queasy, but then it was gone. Everything ached, and he’d go home limping, but he didn’t care, and rest had rarely felt so good before.

He murmured with satisfaction as she freed his hands, and he brought his elbows to his chest and curled in on himself. The last sensation he was aware of was her fingers on his cheek and her voice saying, “I wonder which of us won.”


	3. Gersha Figures Besha Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mugi_says_eep for the idea that led me to add this chapter! In which there is crème brûlée, and I really wish I had some right now. :)

It was getting late in the evening, the dinner hour past, and most of the tables in the Restaurant were vacant. Besha led Gersha through the dimly lit interior, past spiky-leaved, flowering plants in pots and a few murmuring young couples, to a booth snugged up against the ribbed glass outer wall.

A server in a white coverall sidled up. Besha made two orders that sounded to Gersha like nonsense words, then asked, “You?”

“Nothing, thanks.” He kept his face severe, reminding Besha he’d come here to be polite and not because he wanted any more of the man’s company.

“We need to talk,” Besha had insisted as they left Davita’s. Gersha had been too exhausted from the acrimonious tea party, and too preoccupied by wrenching thoughts of what he’d left Tilrey to, to say no.

“Don’t be silly, you barely ate before. Get him the same,” Besha said, and waved the server away.

“You’re going to love this brandy they have.” Besha sprawled forward on his elbows, onto Gersha’s side of the table. The man looked remarkably happy and punchy, Gersha thought, for someone who had just been systematically humiliated by his spouse, had his ugly past exposed to a colleague, and thrown a fit over all of it.

“It’s made from Bettevy apples, and you can practically taste the autumn and the orchard in it. An ‘orchard’ is a bunch of fruit-bearing trees—but you probably know that. What’s wrong?” Besha added, as if finally registering Gersha’s glumness.

Gersha gazed through the curved glass at the block of last-century façades, all tall windows and fanciful stone cornices, their neat angles permanently smudged with snow. “What’s wrong with _me_? Why are you so chipper suddenly? I’m starting to think that if _I_ were married to you, I’d treat you like a child, too.”

“Perish the thought.” Besha patted Gersha’s hand, chuckling; Gersha tensed. “What can I say? I always feel better after I’ve let it rip a little, and Davita understands that.”

“You mean that kind of thing . . . happens often?” Gersha couldn’t imagine squabbling with Tilrey that way. The few disagreements they’d had involved staying aloof from each other for a few hours or days, followed by mutual apologies and reconciliation in bed.

“Well, I don’t usually get so political. That was to explain my vote, so she doesn’t get suspicious.” Besha had lowered his voice. “You’re not really worried about her with Rishka, are you? He can take care of himself.”

Gersha inched away from those too-keen eyes. “Yes. He can always take care of himself in the moment, but after . . . do you know he has nightmares?”

It was a private thing to mention, but then, the three of them had shared a bed for a full night. Sooner or later, Besha was likely to witness those nightmares for himself. He might as well know that even Tilrey’s resilience had limits.

“Nightmares?” Besha looked puzzled, but a radiant smile took over his face as the server deposited two small crystal glasses and two saucers on the table. “Ah, the crème brûlée. You haven’t lived till you’ve eaten this. Gersha, I insist.”

The stuff in the saucer looked vaguely like rice pudding, but smoother and with a perversely burnt top. Gersha shattered the caramelization with his spoon, picked up some of the yellowy-white fat, and gingerly inserted it in his mouth.

Sweetness exploded on his tongue, lighting up the pleasure centers of his brain in a hectic way that reminded him alarmingly of an orgasm. “That’s actual dairy that had to be flown here in a refrigerated container, and way more sugar than anyone should consume in a single serving,” he said accusingly, and took a second bite.

“I know.” Besha dug in gleefully. “That’s the point!” He sipped his brandy, his expression clouding again. “You don’t mean he has nightmares about stuff _I_ did to him, do you?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Gersha tried a tiny sip of the brandy, which was sweet as well as heady. He might not sleep tonight, but then, that was already a foregone conclusion. “I don’t quiz him on what he dreams about. I just hold him till it’s over. But you should know he’s not something you can use and break.”

“Me, use _him_?” Besha stared wide-eyed. “This whole thing with Davita was Tilrey’s idea. He said he could bring her around, and I said, ‘Be my guest, you’re welcome to try.’”

Gersha was neither surprised nor reassured. He took another small swallow, feeling warmth spread through his chest. If sapping was like being led by a soft, maternal hand down into a warm labyrinth that muffled all sounds and sensations, drinking alcohol was more like being set on fire. How did Harbourers bear all this stimulation?

“I hope you gave him some guidance, at least,” he said.

“Of course!” Besha chuckled. “I told him things way too intimate for _your_ tender ears. There are things only us whores understand.”

Gersha remembered how Besha had called himself a “fuck-piece” earlier. “Don’t be absurd. You can’t understand what it’s like to be treated the way he’s been treated, any more than I can. All the stuff you said about reform tonight,” he went on, spooning up more of the devilish dessert, “about making things fair. Was that a lie, or one of your convenient poses? Or are you serious about taking the side of the downtrodden?”

Besha was nearly finished with his own crème. “Dunno,” he said, mouth full. “I mean, it made sense to me at the time, I guess. You’re the one who likes to quote Whyberg; I leave that stuff to other people. System’s definitely unfair, but it’s worse when it’s unfair to _me_ , you know?”

Gersha was amused despite himself—or maybe that was the brandy taking effect. “So, as long as reform makes things better for _you_ , you’re for it? What an excellent attitude for a public servant.”

“I don’t have idea intelligence, remember? I have social intelligence.”

“Yes. And the intelligence to run a sizable criminal operation.” Still troubled by Davita’s story, Gersha hadn’t wanted to touch the subject, but the damned brandy was making everything seem unreal.

“Oh yes, that shocked your delicate sensibilities, didn’t it?” Besha jabbed the air with his spoon. “Davita knew it would, too. She wanted to needle you.”

“I don’t understand why _she’s_ not more bothered.” He knew he sounded prim, but verdant hells, a Councillor with a past like that!

Besha’s knee nudged his under the table. “Do you really think I’m the only ‘public servant’ who’s ever taken advantage of a dead-end posting to make a little personal profit?”

“No.” Gersha thought of Supervisor Fernei in Thurskein, and of the Upstart Admins who’d slipped him Harbourer goods in return for the company of the young people he’d bribed or forced into prostitution. “But that doesn’t make it right. Especially selling weapons.”

“I drew the line at anything lethal, okay?” Besha gulped down the rest of his brandy. “I’m not one of those Hargists trying to sow chaos, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just . . . well, I hate seeing good equipment gathering dust when somebody could be profiting from it, you know? It kills me. I like figuring out how to make things useful.”

“ _The profit motive was the downfall of the Tangle_ ,” Gersha said sternly. For all the Tangle books he’d read, he’d never clearly understood the meaning of the term “profit motive” or why Whyberg found it so offensive. Something to do with profits being maximizable, unlike an Oslov ration level. But Besha clearly had an excellent handle on it.

“Sheesh, no more of those damned quotes. I can’t take it.” Besha’s knee nudged Gersha’s again, and this time it stayed there. “I knew that story freaked you out; that’s why I wanted to talk. You’re not going to turn me in or anything, are you?”

 _I probably should._ But right now Gersha didn’t even have the strength to repel the warm pressure of Besha’s calf against his. “No,” he said, looking into his colleague’s canny blue eyes. “I’ve simply figured out a different way to make you useful.”

“That’s the spirit!” Besha laughed full-throatedly, and Gersha wasn’t sure if he was relieved or repelled. “You’re the idea man, and I don’t mind being used as long as I benefit. And if the user is someone I like.”

His calf nuzzled against Gersha’s a little more intimately, and now Gersha did withdraw his. “Not without Tilrey here,” he murmured, knowing Besha would understand.

“Do you think he’d like to watch while I take you?” Besha asked in the same low tone. “Because we haven’t done that yet.”

Blood flushed Gersha’s face, but the mental image was surprisingly . . . all right. “You should be so lucky.” And then, because the brandy was making him stupid, he added, “Do you actually _like_ me?”

Besha laughed again, so crowingly that a pasty young couple across the room turned to look. “Ha! I knew I’d melt you eventually. Just a little. I like you when you’re not such a damnable prig.”

“Is that why you betrayed me at school? Because I was a prig?” He was just letting it _all_ out tonight, wasn’t he?

Besha screwed up his face, as if consulting his lifetime mental list of betrayals. “Oh, _that._ You were sore about that? I mean, everybody’s always throwing everybody over at school, and anyway, you never even seemed to like me.”

“We were _friends_ —I thought.” But then Gersha remembered how locked-down he’d been for most of his life, presenting a proper face to the world and burying his feelings deep beneath. No wonder he’d had no real friends but Ranek, who seemed to understand him intuitively.

 _Ranek._ He needed to get back and check on the results of the worm he’d put in the Int/Sec database, but not just yet.

“Maybe we just have different ways of expressing affection,” he said, feeling his reproach turn to gentle mockery. “You, for instance, seem to think you can endear yourself to me by being a pain in the ass.”

Besha grinned widely. “Well, Davita likes me when I’m naughty.”

“Yes, clearly. And you like it when she scolds you, don’t you?”

“Now you know _all_ my secrets. Congratulations are in order.” Besha sprang to his feet and summoned the server. “Over here, lad! Another round.”


	4. Tilrey Makes a Deal

When Tilrey came back to himself, Councillor Lindblom was perched on the edge of the bed, her robe securely closed, looking at him with no expression. “You’ve got gooseflesh.”

“Can I . . .” He levered himself up on an elbow—green hells, everything _hurt_ —and peeled back the bedclothes and crawled under them. He was too wiped out to leave yet, whether or not she wanted him to.

He closed his eyes, remembering with an inner cringe how Magistrate Linden always acted after he satisfied his need to show some clumsy sort of dominance over his kettle boy. _Out of here, slut. I don’t need to hear you snoring next to me._

“You may, yes. I don’t see you going anywhere right now.” Davita slid over beside him and stroked his shoulder. His ass still stung from the impact of that deceptively soft palm; he shivered at her touch but didn’t pull away.

“Who used a dildo on you before?” she asked.

“Fir Linden.” He was too tired to be evasive. Anyway, Linden had retired from political life last year after suffering a second stroke, leaving another of Verán’s cronies as General Magistrate. “He was impotent, but he considered it his duty to fuck me somehow, and he liked making me squirm.”

“Squirm in pain? Or the way you did with me just now?”

“He wasn’t as . . . good at this as you are.”

“I imagine. I think I see now what’s special about you.” She ran her fingertips up his neck, into his hair, and down to trace the delicate ridge of his ear, and he opened his eyes, a faint thrill of sensation running over his skin. “You _are_ versatile. I imagine if I asked you to throw me down and fuck me from behind, ruthless as an animal, you could do that, too.”

He managed to chuckle. “Maybe not right now, Fir’n.”

“No, not right now. But you’ve done it to Besha, haven’t you?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about him.”

“Don’t be cheeky.” A finger probed at his lips; letting it in, he tasted sap. “That rule has been rescinded. Now I’m asking you a question.”

Tilrey suckled her finger and swallowed the sweetness. “With all due respect, Fir’n, I don’t _want_ to talk about Besha. It’s private.”

“Then let’s talk about you.” Davita rolled toward him and propped herself up on an elbow. “Someone trained you to submit, and they did it well. You need to be mastered sometimes, maybe even to be hurt, and you haven’t been getting much of that, have you? Certainly not from my husband, or from your sweet, egalitarian lover.”

Tilrey closed his eyes again, fleeing from the weight of her gaze, and breathed in the strange, springlike smell of the room. The profoundly not-Oslov smell. “Besha and I used to play at it,” he said, because talking about Besha was easier than talking about Linnett. “He’d tie me up.”

“Yes, well. Besha may dabble in dominance, to deal with his insecurities, but he’s no expert. And you need one. I’ve known plenty of whores who play-acted submission—‘bowing and scraping,’ as Besha puts it—but they didn’t respond to a firm hand the way you do. Who trained you?”

_You’re not getting that from me._ He opened his eyes into hers. “Or we could talk about you, Fir’n.”

A smile, designed to intimidate. “What do you want to say? Out with it.”

“You’re a die-hard Islander, yet this room is filled with Harbourer imports. I don’t think I’ve seen so many since I lived with . . .”

“Linnett.” She stared languorously into his eyes as he realized he’d inadvertently revealed his secret. “That’s who trained you, isn’t it?”

Tilrey swallowed, hope and fear tangling inside him—hope because it would be such a relief to talk to someone else who really knew the exiled Magistrate. “Did you know him well?”

“You mean, did he fuck me? No, I don’t think I had quite the equipment he preferred, but I heard stories. He liked to seduce young Upstarts, especially proud ones with illustrious names. He liked to break their spirits, to hurt them—not physically, but in deeper ways.”

Tilrey propped himself up, mirroring her posture. “I wouldn’t know about that. I wasn’t high-named or proud. I do know he was fond of Harbourer goods, just like you are. He dreamed of spending his old age in Harbour, and that’s why he betrayed the Republic.”

Davita’s eyes narrowed. “Are you insinuating something, sweetheart? Because I don’t advise that.”

“That you’re a traitor? No, Fir’n.” He glanced around the room, a properly spartan Oslov space overlaid with incongruously sumptuous scents and colors. Much like Davita herself, who was a façade of propriety concealing a florid, ferocious core. “But I have to say, everything about your . . . intimate spaces makes me wonder why you chose to align yourself with Verán and the Island Party.”

She hoisted her brows. “You doubt my loyalty to the Island on the basis of my robe and my decorating sense? Or on the basis of what I like in bed?”

“No. But, with respect, Fir’n, based on what you told us today about Besha and his smuggling operation, I have reason to doubt you’re as ideologically inflexible as you pretend to be.”

He braced himself for a rebuke, but Davita only laughed. “‘Ideologically inflexible’? You sound like Verán. Don’t make yourself ugly all over again, darling, after you’ve so thoroughly won me over.”

Taking a risk, Tilrey sat up and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Still damp from their exertion, her pale brown skin was as fragrant as the room. “Have I?” he asked.

She caught his hand and stroked it, bringing it to her cheek. “You seduced me tonight, don’t you realize? I’m not sure I’ve ever had a man who submitted with such grace, and I’ve had quite a few.”

The smell and feel of her were intoxicating, but he was back in control of himself now. “Besha must have been seductive, too. Instead of reporting his crimes, you married him—and helped him become a Councillor.”

“If you’re hoping to hold that over my head, you’re out of luck. I took care of the proof.” She sucked on his index finger, her thumb teasing at his palm. “I liked Besha too much to report him, yes. He had spirit and initiative, which too few of my peers do, and I knew he’d excel in politics. And . . .”

“And you control him.” Taking another risk, Tilrey pulled her gently into the circle of his arms. She stiffened for a split second, then relaxed and molded herself to his body, and he said, “You like that. You like to know you’re the reason he does everything he does. When you’re not in control, it upsets you.”

“How very astute of you.” Her tone was acid as she pressed herself fiercely against him, twisting, her round ass against his abruptly hard cock. “You’re distracting me now, darling, and we have business to do first, so let’s cut through the bullshit. Here’s the situation, as I see it: Gersha is madly in love with you. Because he adores you, he wants to reform the system he thinks has oppressed you.”

_Thinks._ What did _she_ think, then, that he was simply using Gersha? Did she even care who he was? But Tilrey kept his mouth shut.

“To that end, he’s recruited Besha, who’s madly in lust with you—or with both of you. Because of his own personal failings and insecurities, Besha isn’t unsympathetic to the cause of reform. Gersha’s well on the way to forming a splinter party—no, don’t speak, lad. You and your boyfriend may not understand the long-term political consequences of what he’s doing, but I do. And I want in.”

“You . . . what, Fir’n?”

She wriggled round in his arms to face him. “You heard me. This is a sensitive moment in the Council; Verán and the elder Islanders are aging out. There’s going to be a power vacuum, and I have no intention of letting someone like Niko Karishkov fill it. _I_ intend to be General Magistrate, and I intend to stay General Magistrate for a long time.”

Something about her voice and the set of her jaw made the words ring like a prophecy. “But . . .”

“Yes, I know. Besha has some silly notion that _he’s_ going to sit in the top seat. That’s because the Island is dominated by men, and they keep women out of their inner circle of power—their little parties, the sexual exchanges that bond them. You know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen how Verán shared you around, put you on display.”

He ignored the goad. “What does that have to do with you?”

“It wasn’t just you who was on show, silly. When Verán passed you around like a favor, he was forcing his allies to demonstrate their sexual prowess to _him_. He likes to lead them by their cocks, and because I don’t have a cock, he’ll never fully trust me. Well, I don’t accept that. I’ve played the maternal role, clucking at all their little indiscretions, because that’s all they allowed me. But I’ve been waiting to make my move, and I think it’s time.”

Tilrey stared into her bold dark eyes, feeling mastered in a whole different way now. He’d picked up plenty of political savvy over the years, enough to teach it to Gersha, but Davita had been swimming in this oily element her entire life. She’d transformed Besha from a petty criminal into an up-and-coming Councillor. What could she do for Gersha—and for him?

“What exactly are you proposing, Fir’n?” he asked.

Her pupils dilated, and she shook a finger at him. “There you go again, stepping out of your rightful place. You’re in no position to make deals with me.”

He dropped his eyes. “Of course not.”

Did Davita really not understand that _he_ , not Gersha, had masterminded the passage of the Notification bill? That _he_ had recruited Besha? Apparently not. For all her sophistication and expertise, all her gushing praise, she couldn’t think that far outside her upbringing.

Tilrey’s pride bridled at it, but it was better this way. Being underestimated could be useful.

She ran a finger along his bottom lip. “You’ll play messenger boy and tell Gersha I’m willing to consider an alliance with him in a splinter reformist party, on one iron-clad condition: he steps aside and lets me do the strategy.”

Tilrey almost laughed, but he managed to turn the grin into a grimace. “Okay. You do like being in control, don’t you, Fir’n?”

“And _you_ are such a distraction.” She fumbled beneath the covers till her fingers closed on his cock. “Gersha’s really lucky he has you to sweeten his deals. Are you in love with him, too?” She stroked him knowingly, and he gasped as pleasure shot up his spine. “I hope so. I like Gersha. He’s my ideal of an Upstart male. If I ever think you’re taking advantage of him, I may have to find a way to _really_ hurt you.”

The words summoned an image of Gersha waiting and worrying at home. Tilrey went abruptly still in her grasp. “That’s nothing to joke about, Fir’n. My first loyalty is to Gersha, always.”

The words came out almost too earnest, as if he were trying to convince himself. But he did mean them, didn’t he? It was just that, if push came to shove, Gersha might need his loyalty less than certain other people needed it. His mother, Dal, his other friends in Thurskein. Other Laborers.

The teasing look faded from Davita’s face, but she didn’t release his cock. “That’s sweet. I should let you go home to him. But first . . . perhaps you could show me just how versatile you are?”

Reading her body language, he rolled over, grasped both her slender wrists, and pinned her beneath him. “The whole ‘throw me down and fuck me from behind’ thing? Was that just hypothetical, Fir’n?”

She arched her back, baring her throat, and answered him with a wicked grin.

***

When he tiptoed back home, well after midnight, the apartment was dark and silent except for the ever-present hum of heating. Perhaps Gersha was asleep—Tilrey hoped so.

Then he saw the strip of light under the door of the small room that Gersha still called “yours,” though Tilrey rarely slept in there anymore.

He knocked, and Gersha opened the door in a robe, dark smudges under his eyes. The narrow bed behind him was disheveled, scattered with files and devices. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I seem to have a way of invading your space.”

“Don’t be silly, love.” Tilrey was still limping from his encounter with Davita’s toys, but he did his best to hide it as he lowered himself onto the bed, shoving the files aside. “I barely even use this room. Why didn’t you stay in your own bed where you’re more comfortable?”

Gersha blushed. “Old time’s sake, I guess. And this room smells like you. Are you . . . are you all right, love?”

Tilrey reached out to nudge a curl out of Gersha’s eyes. “I’ve told you before I don’t break.”

“It’s possible to be unbroken but not all right,” Gersha said as if he’d meditated the words ahead of time, cautious of Tilrey’s pride.

“I know. And I _am_ all right. Or close enough.” Tenderness swelled in him, but there was no time for that. He was exhausted, and he needed a shower, but the news was more important. “She wants to make an alliance.”

He began explaining in more detail, addressing every objection he imagined Gersha might make, but Gersha made no objections. His eyes were ranging distractedly around the room. “What’s wrong?” Tilrey finally asked.

“Nothing.” Gersha’s eyes returned to him, with that glassy look that often meant he was close to tears. “You _are_ okay?”

There was no single word for how Tilrey felt—used, tired, hurt, released, satisfied, maybe even _good_ —but he forced himself to grin. “For the last time, if anyone breaks me, it won’t be Davita Lindblom.”

He expected Gersha to fuss over him some more, but the Councillor only gazed at him with those wet, serious, sea-green eyes, as if he were trying to read in Tilrey’s own eyes a record of what had happened in the past several hours. Tilrey gazed back as blandly as he could. _You don’t want to know. You wouldn’t understand._

If he said that, Gersha would feel rejected, and he shouldn’t. Davita could offer something that Gersha couldn’t, yes, but it wasn’t something Tilrey _wanted_ Gersha to offer. _You need to be mastered sometimes, maybe even to be hurt_. And Gersha would never feel comfortable with that part of him.

“I finally found what I wanted on the Int/Sec server,” Gersha said haltingly, as if he wasn’t sure Tilrey was listening. “I know now who informed on Egil.”

“Who?” Tilrey tried to look only politely interested, as if Egil’s fate meant nothing to him, but his pulse had sped up.

“An Int/Sec functionary, one of those poor wretches who spend most of their time looking at surveillance footage—‘screen minders,’ they call them. He came to his boss with a story about how Egil had talked reform to him. Which isn’t a crime, mind!” Gersha’s eyes glistened. “But his boss was alarmed, so they set up a sting. The screen minder pretended to be receptive to Ranek’s ideas. He recorded Ranek saying some compromising things. For instance, that he happened to know some of our undercover assets in Thurskein and Karkei are actually working to protect and foster a Dissident movement.” Gersha’s face flushed; clearly it cost him to admit this about his friend.

“Go on,” Tilrey said gently.

“There’s no more to tell. They got the recording, they interrogated my friend for a single _night_ , and then they exiled him. As far as I can tell, no one’s even tried to verify what he said about double agents, or followed up on the lead about hives of Dissidents in the Laborer cities.”

Tilrey kept his face blank, wondering whether any of the True Hearthers he’d met in Thurskein were covert agents of Int/Sec. He’d have to find a way to warn Dal and Lourisa—though, if they’d flipped those assets to their side, they already knew.

“There’s more,” he said. “I can tell from your face.”

Gersha gathered up knots of the bedclothes. “Yes. This Bors Dartán—the wretched little screen minder who ratted in the first place—is a protégé of Niko Karishkov’s.”

Dartán? Again Tilrey struggled not to react; the family name must be a coincidence. If Irin Dartán had anything to do with Int/Sec, he would have put Tilrey in a cell long ago.

But Gersha was preoccupied with his own dark conjectures. “When we took down Niko, Ranek helped—he supplied the cameras, remember? Niko could have found them and known they came from Int/Sec. Once he guessed I was involved—a natural assumption, because he knew I didn’t want him to have the committee chair—he would have done some digging and found out Ranek was my friend.”

“You’re saying you think Karishkov deliberately took down Egil? As revenge for what we did to him?” It made sense to Tilrey; they had blown a gigantic hole in Karishkov’s political aspirations. And he knew what Gersha didn’t: there was no need to manufacture evidence against Egil. “You think he was framed?”

“I don’t know.” Gersha rubbed his face fitfully, drew his fingers through his wild hair. “I heard the recording, Rishka. It was him. But the things he said . . . well, they were out of context. They could be interpreted more than one way.” He sighed. “I’ll stop boring you with this. Ranek was no friend to you.”

Tilrey clasped Gersha’s hands, bending close so they could feel each other’s breath on their cheeks. “If Karishkov mounted a conspiracy against us, there’s nothing boring about that. He could try to hurt us again. We’re going to have to decide how much we can tell Fir’n Lindblom about all this.”

His mind was working fast, already planning to meet up tomorrow with Besha, who would have a better sense of how far his wife’s ethical scruples extended. Tilrey had a suspicion that, for all Davita’s virtuous posturing, extortion wouldn’t faze her. She might have ideas for dealing with Karishkov, which made her just the sort of ally they needed, as long as they could trust her.

Oh yes, this alliance could be fruitful. He was already looking forward to learning more from Davita, in and out of the bedroom . . . learning enough to use her for his own ends.

But he couldn’t forget that Ranek had died for those ends. He would tread carefully, so carefully, now he knew Karishkov was watching them, and he’d have to be careful what he told Gersha, too.

Gersha said in a choked voice, “I’m the one who got Ranek involved,” and Tilrey realized the Councillor had been lost in his own thoughts.

He tangled his fingers in Gersha’s curls and drew him close, feeling the other heart pulse distantly against his. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, love. Ranek’s choices were his own. If he really knew about double agents and didn’t report them, that’s treason. But I’m not so sure I trust the word of Karishkov’s little lackey.”

Gersha shivered against him, but Tilrey’s brain was clear and cold. He stared at the white wall, already seeing his future take shape there.

Like Davita, he wanted to change the way things worked, but _not just for myself_ , he whispered deep down in his heart. _For the good of everyone._

He hoped it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this sets up a story I'm working on that takes place nearly five years later, with some new POVs. That will lead into the Harbour trip story, I hope. Thank you so much for reading, and for your kudos and comments! <3 They are always very welcome.


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